Part 5

And these loaves they bake are indeed loaves for ogres; huge affairs two feet long and as big 'round their rich brown girth as pumpkins. In "sheets" of a dozen each they are brought from the fire and placed steaming hot on a nearby table where an expert breaks them apart and tests the tenderness of their fibre and searches for signs of doughiness. These bakers are all of the Regular Army now, but not long since czars of dingy cellar bakeries located anywhere from Boston to San Francisco. But the ogre has called them together and here like gnomes they work, eight hours each in three shifts and the oven fires are kept burning always.

Still we drill, drill, drill. This morning was spent in manoeuvring and tramping over the wet and soggy countryside in company formation, and this afternoon, by way of variety, we were given a few hours fatigue duty in the line of uprooting more stumps and gnarled tentacles, that seem to have rooted themselves in China. But our hands are hard and leathery now and our muscles no longer creak and pain under the stress. I've added four pounds to my former weight and I have never felt more fit in my life.

Tuesday:

The cost of high living here is enormous. The stoop-shouldered, shrewd-eyed, flinty-hearted Yankee clerks behind the broad counters of the "Post Exchange" disdain anything less than a quarter. Dimes and nickels are chicken-feed, and pennies--impossible. If a chap buys one apple at five cents or one pear or one banana (always green and a long way from being ripe) he has to hide himself in the crowd to escape the baleful eye of these grasping sharks. Five cent crackers sell two boxes for a quarter, penny candies are five cents each, cigars and cigarettes are considerably above normal in price and considerably below in quality, and ice cream sells for ten cents a gram.

But none of us has grown up. We are all like big boys and we spend with no thought of to-morrow. Mess over, we all hie out to the two main roads that lead to the "Post Exchange," jingling coins in our trouser pockets. The "Exchange" itself is a long, low unpainted building like all other buildings here with tiny back country windows, half-obscured by garments hanging within which leave only a few dirty squares for the dull yellow light to show through.

The doors are broad and through them streams a never ending line of troopers, some coming, some going. Inside, the place resembles nothing more than a huge up-country general store with shelves upon shelves stacked high with cracker boxes, shoe boxes, hardware and goodness only knows what not, while from the rafters hang heavy coats, sweaters, lanterns, huge stalks of green bananas, hams, bacon, boots and a lot of useless things that only gullible soldiers who feel a yearning to spend their money really purchase. But this spending of money somehow seems to bring us closer to civilization for the moment and we join the churning mass of men within, whose hobnailed shoes produce a great pounding and scraping sound and whose voices are raised in a constant babble of conversation which only the sharp ting, ting of the cash register bells can punctuate.

We mill around with the crowd, and soon are pushed against a counter. Something attracts our eye. We feel a desire to possess it. We buy it, and start milling about the room again until presently we are near the door. Then we step out into the night again and join one of the groups of loiterers or sit about on boxes and piles of lumber, where we devour our purchase, if it happens to be in the line of crackers (which is usually the case), or admire it, if it happens to be a pocket flash lamp, a fountain pen or something else that we really never have had any use for.

The small-town idea prevails even in the city of thirty thousand lonesome men. The "Post Exchange" and the "Post Office" are the two centres of interest. First we wander to one, and then we wander to the other, then with time on our hands we join the stream of men going up one side of the road "just walkin'" and when we reach the point where most of the crowd turns back, we turn back, too, and continue our "walkin'," with no particular place to go, until the streets begin to get deserted and it is time for the town to close up. Then we disappear, too, and for an hour occupy ourselves in the barracks until taps are sounded and lights are out, when we go to bed; the place I'm headed for now, so soon as I put the top on my fountain pen.

Wednesday:

That's the call that brings out all the shirkers. They line up in the morning and present all sorts of ailments from sore throat to heart disease.

The line is especially long on mornings when they know we are in for two hours of "settin'-ups" or when some especially hard detail such as camp orderly or kitchen police has been handed out. A day in the hospital will relieve one of all these duties. This morning I was on the long line. But I hasten to explain that _I_ was sick (that's what they all say, of course,) with chills and a scrapy feeling in my throat; and since we are forbidden to take any medicine of our own, I shame-facedly line up with the rest of them. There were about twenty all told and the doctor made short work of us.

"What's the matter with you?" very cross.

"I-I-I-here--it hurts," said one, pointing to his back and looking quite scared. The M. D. poked his finger into the spot designated.

"Man you're not sick," said the doctor in a very startling manner, "you're almost dead, only you won't lie down. You've dislocated a couple of vertibraes, ruptured a half-dozen ligaments and like as not you have a chronic case of pneumonia. The only thing that I can recommend for you is two hours of strenuous exercise. You may pull through and you may not." Then, with a malicious grin, he turned to the next man and the first invalid shuffled off, mumbling something about horse doctors without any horse sense.

Two out of twenty of us got by. The rest went to work. I was one of the two. I had a slight temperature and an inflamed throat. Nothing serious, but report to the hospital. I did. And the best thing about the hospital was the fact that there were two sheets on the bed and I had an abbreviated flannel nightshirt to sleep in. Three big pills, the size of bullets and just as deadly, and then I turned in, went to sleep and slept right through mess time.

Four o'clock I was feeling very much better and ravenously hungry and at five o'clock I was discharged as cured. I don't know what I was cured of, but I'm feeling much spryer just now after three helpings of beef stew and apple marmalade and I'm ready to turn in and sleep some more.

Thursday:

If there is one thing that I want to remember more than anything else about this Conscript Camp it is the spectacle I witnessed and took part in this evening.

Fancy if you can Tower Hill with its big headquarters building snuggled in among the scattered and gaunt pines, the tall, ungainly water-tank propped up on all too spindly-looking stilts. On top of this a single figure thrown in bold relief by the golden yellow light of a big watch-fire, beating time with his baton, and below him, clothing the slopes of the hill five thousand men, his chorus, thundering forth across the starlit night "Columbia the Gem of the Ocean." That chorus was wonderful; that crowd was wonderful; everything about it was wonderful.

We were all singing; thousands of fellows in khaki, some snuggled in their big army overcoats, some puffed out like pouter pigeons with the sweaters they had piled on under their tunics against the cold chill of night. Intermingled were the lumber jacks and labourers from the civilian camp, most of them in gay mackinaws and caps; with now and then an officer immaculately clad in clean cut uniform, or a Y. M. C. A. man in grey-green suit with red circle and triangle gleaming in the firelight. And how well they could sing; I have never heard a more stirring chorus and as we raised our voices loud and clear shivery thrills raced up and down our spines, and we were stirred to the highest pitch of patriotic fervor. Indeed, there were some among us who could find no better way of expressing the emotion that swelled within save by tears. They cried. I was one of them.

"America" and "Dixie" and "Maryland" followed and every one produced its own thrill and its own heartache. Never was there anything more stirring, Never was there anything finer. We sang till our voices were husky and the great chorus surged loud and clear across the night, until it must have echoed against the crags of the Rhine and caused the Hun to shudder.

Then the breaking up of the big meeting, when groups detached themselves and wandered out of the fitful flicker of the dying firelight into the misty blue blackness of the night, still singing. Out through the streets of the camp we tramped, stepping to the cadence of our own songs. We were all happy, very, very happy and draft or no draft, down in our hearts we all knew that we were in the very place we were meant to be, and we were doing the very things that we should do, and that when the time came we would do other and greater things with as much eagerness and enthusiasm as we had sung up there on Tower Hill to-night.

The whole camp was singing even after the concert, but the character of the songs changed. "Over There" swelled forth everywhere and "The Yankees Are Coming" was chanted in every street. Out toward our own barracks our little group swung, passing the railroad siding where, partly shrouded in the canvas jackets, new artillery pieces were waiting to be moved in the morning. A cheer for these and a cheer for everything and anything that suggested patriotism, and on we tramped, brimming over with enthusiasm.

And now I'm back to the barracks again, but the mysteries of the night and the spell of the whole wonderful occasion is still over me and I know I shall lie awake a long, long time and think and dream of all that waits for me in the not very distant future. And the promises I made myself up there on Tower Hill will all be fulfilled, that's certain.

Friday:

Momentous news. We of the headquarters company, or rather eighty-seven of us, start Monday on the first leg of that longed-for journey to France. We go to a Southern training camp where new units are being formed into which each of us will fit. And along with this news came the announcement that none of us will be given a pass to go home for a last good-bye. This has stirred the men more than the news of the transfer South. Several impromptu indignation meetings were held this morning and this afternoon, just after mess, a real demonstration took place in the mess hall and most of the eighty-seven of us were loud in our assertions that we would go home anyway, even though we were arrested for desertion afterward.

This little incident served to impress upon me more than anything else the freedom that is accorded the men of this new American Army, for behold, before the meeting broke up a Lieutenant came in and addressed us on the penalties for desertion, the difficulty of dealing with headstrong soldiers and similar subjects, and then when we all felt and looked like slackers he announced that although orders had gone forth that no passes were to be granted, our commanding officer, knowing our feeling in the matter, was at that time trying very hard to arrange to secure permission for the men to go home over Saturday night and Sunday. As I left the mess hall I wondered vaguely how such a mass meeting would have been treated in the German Army, for instance, and I thanked my lucky stars that I was an American.

But there are a thousand and one things remaining to be accomplished to-day. I have been hurrying from one place to another since reveille and now at taps all that I should do is not done yet. But to-morrow is another day.

First of all we were rushed off to receive our third and fourth inoculations together. Then came the announcement that we would be relieved of all our winter clothing and given a complete summer outfit instead, for it appears there is no need for woollens in this Southland camp to which we are going.

And between times, there were a score of personal things I wanted to do, not the least of which was to join the line of waiting men before the telephone booths in the Y. M. C. A. shacks to tell them at home the news of our going. In all this, poor Fat seems to be sadly left out, for he is not among the fellows who are to leave. He stands helplessly by and watches the hurry and bustle going on about him, and sometimes I think there is a sad, wistful sort of a look in his big, good-natured face, for I know he doesn't like the idea of staying here when the snow begins to fall and winds whistle disconsolately around the corners of the barracks building. I am glad that _I_ will not have to spend the winter here and I'm sorry, too, that Fat is not to be with me.

Saturday:

To-day, for the first time since I have been here, I had visitors. Those at home, eager to get a glimpse of their soldier-boy in his native haunts, came down to see things as they are. I'm quite certain that the general arrangement of the barracks, with its cluttered appearance suggested by many pairs of shoes standing around and many hats and coats and old sweaters hanging about, did not accord with mother's ideas of good housekeeping. And she assured me that many of the old rose, pink and baby blue comforters would not have suffered from a washing, all of which I had never noticed before, until she drew my attention to it. She intimated, too, that my dish towel and my hand towel would never testify as to my respectable up-bringing, and she felt that I should make a practice of taking off those abominably heavy trench shoes in the evening and putting on a pair of slippers which she would send down to me. She thought that a bath-robe might come in handy for lounging in the evening and perhaps after we got comfortably settled in our Southern quarters, she might send one of the big, roomy library chairs down to me, for she did not approve of one's sitting on one's bed the way most of us did. She deplored the total lack of chairs about the barracks and she was quite sure that taking an ice cold shower out in that horrible big tin building would certainly result in innumerable cases of influenza, if nothing more serious. She's a dear old mother and I don't know that I have ever appreciated her so much as I have since I've been down here.

Then with my visitors caring for themselves for a while, and mother chumming up with the always affable Fat, whom she took quite a fancy to, I hurried about my work of being re-outfitted with summer uniforms. Fortunately they allowed me to retain my overcoat (which I received but a few days ago) until we are ready to entrain.

Then came the passes. The officer was successful and we who are to go South are given a release from duty until to-morrow night at retreat. Other passes were distributed, too, and Fat fortunate for once, yet unfortunate, got one to go home until Monday morning. But poor Fat! Still the military tailors lag and now that he has the pass that he has been trying to get for this last month, he cannot use it, for he is not properly uniformed to leave the cantonment, having still just his flannel shirt. He tried frantically to borrow parts of a uniform to fit him and while he could find a pair of breeches that he could get into, a jacket was lacking, so in disgust, and with a most unhappy smile, he gave it up and went over to the Y.M. telephone booth to ask his mother to come down and visit him over Sunday.

And to-night there are no taps for me, for I am home once more and writing this at my own desk. We all came home together and had a bully trip and now, after the best dinner I have eaten in many a day, I shall see a real show at a real theatre, and sit up as late as I choose and when I go to bed I will be between clean sheets again and there will be no officers' whistles to wake me in the morning.

Sunday:

Back again, but back to a sad and very unhappy barracks. Fat, poor, poor Fat, who felt downcast because he was not going South, has gone on a far longer journey. It is the first tragedy that has come into our life here in our barracks and with the thoughts of the breaking up of the big family on the morrow, and the homesickness, that most of us feel because of our all too brief trips home, has cast a gloom over us all.

Unfortunate Fat, done out of using his pass by the slowness of the army tailors, telephoned home yesterday to have his mother come out to see him. At train time this morning he was at the terminal awaiting her arrival. But in the shifting of the cars back and forth in the yard an accident happened and Fat, in the way of it, was one of its victims. Both his legs were crushed and he was hurried away to the hospital.

Meanwhile, his grey-haired old mother arrived and stood about the terminal hour after hour wondering why he did not come for her, and it was not until late this afternoon that one of the boys in our company thought to go down and try and find her; which, fortunately, was not too late to bid her son good-bye.

And now we are on the eve of our departure. As I came through the terminal an hour ago the troop train, a long line of nondescript coaches, was being made up. As each car was made ready it was shunted into line by the ever-grumbling engine and to-morrow at daybreak all will be ready for us. Then we will go and some of us will be sorry, and some of us will be glad. As for myself, all that I can say is "Adieu, camp," and if the place I am bound for, wherever it may be, holds the charms that I've found here, I'll be happy.

Monday:

The mere suggestion of troop movements has a thrill to it, and we have had a lot of thrills to-day.

After a long period of restless waiting, and good-byes to every one and everything about the old barracks, came the command to fall in. Then in summer uniforms, and each with a big blue barracks bag crowded with personal belongings, extra uniform, shoes, blanket and what not, on our shoulders, we lined up, shouted last farewells and stepped off, down the barracks street and out toward the railroad station. There was no whistling nor singing for we were all very solemn, and I was lonesome, for I was alone in line, the only member of our entire squad to go.

We came upon other columns of fellows, coming from other companies, bound with us for this Southern camp. On we marched to the terminal. Here confusion reigned for a while, for hundreds of men in khaki were scattered everywhere, all bending under blue duffel bags, and wondering what was to happen next.

But soon we were entrained, and then with locomotive whistles hooting, and heads bobbing from every car window, we said farewell to The Camp. And with the leave-taking our spirits seemed to rise, for there was singing and whistling and horse play once more as the big cantonment faded from view behind its fringe of pine woods.

Our first impression was that we would travel all the way to Georgia in the cars we had been assigned to, but, fortunately, this was not true, for after a long and tedious trip we detrained again at a ferry terminal in Brooklyn. Here, too, was confusion. It was late in the afternoon, and we were hungry. Every candy stand, and handy store was patronized until the officers interfered. Then came the big, old fashioned side-wheeled ferries, and we were hustled aboard.

Soon the old craft swung out into the river and with churning paddles we headed down stream.

It was just sunset. Far down the bay, beyond Governor's Island and Liberty, a great, fiery red disc was setting in a haze of smoke and mist from the city, while to our right and left on the river banks, lights began to twinkle, and overhead strings of diamonds draped each gracefully arching bridge. Past the Navy Yard we swung, with cheers from the crews of three destroyers in the river. Tugs and steamers and passing sound night boats greeted us with whistles, and we lined the rails and cheered back.

Soon we churned under the last of the bridges and began to make our tortoise-like way around the Battery. Lights were glimmering through the violet haze that shrouded the mass of sky-touching buildings, and in the foreground were hurrying throngs of men and women wending their way through Battery Park toward the ferries.

Up the North River, the skyline of the huge cities changed and grew more impressive, as one building after another came out of the mass and stood alone against the blue-black Eastern night sky. Ferries criss-crossing in the darkness, leaving sparkling trails of light that danced on the water, crowded close to us at times, and the mass of men and women huddled on the windswept decks, cheered us on our way. Thus did we say our last good-bye to the big city--and we said it solemnly and thoughtfully, too, for many of us know that we are going on the long, long journey and will never see that skyline again.

The crowds in the terminal, as we hurried from ferry to the railroad yard, cheered us, too, and men rushed out to shake hands with us and crowded cigarettes and cigars into our pockets as we marched on.

We had been told that the Red Cross would feed us. It did, to the extent of a single sandwich and a cup of coffee, hastily snatched as we wended our way through the railroad yard to the train.

Long tourist sleepers are our lot. They stood on a siding, dimly lighted with a single candle at either end of the car when we climbed into them and were assigned to our seats. We are settled now, and rolling swiftly across Jersey. Lights have been turned on, and the interior of the car looks very strange with the big blue duffel bags swinging from every hook and swaying as the train rounds each curve. But we are all very quiet, and many of us are thinking. We are all homesick that is certain, and hungry, too, and wondering about the future.

Tuesday:

We are rolling through Virginia into the sunset.

For twenty hours we have been crowded into these cars, and we are cramped and tired, but feeling happier with all. Two to a berth, we tried to sleep last night. But sleep was impossible. I was up most of the night, standing at the upper end of the car looking out the window, while my new-found bunkie tried hard to get in a few winks. He wasn't successful.

At midnight we ran through a little station called Brandy, and there in a pounding rainstorm, under the light of a smoky, yellow oil lamp, stood a solitary soldierly-looking figure, a boy, bare-footed and with head uncovered and his rain-soaked cap held over his heart in a salute. He alone had been watching for the troop train.

Sometime after daylight, at Charlottesville, our train stopped for water. All signs of the rain had cleared, hundreds of boys, black and white, and men and women swarmed to the station to greet us. Our canteens were passed out of the windows for water, and hot coffee and thick sandwiches of home-made bread and jelly and delicious ham were given to us by a committee of very old women who had been up since long before daylight awaiting our arrival. Rations were served to us after we pulled out of the station, consisting of bread and hard crackers, and a can of tomatoes and a can of beans for every six men.

By way of diversion we began to play poker for the beans, and a pair of jacks left me breakfastless, except for the coffee and sandwich I was fortunate enough to get at Charlottesville. And that is all I have had since seven o'clock and it is now half-past four.